


Delighting In Your Company

by the_ragnarok



Series: threesome!fic [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Fisting, Infidelity, M/M, Needles, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mal gets some rest, Arthur relaxes and Eames is observant but mostly busy staring at Arthur's fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delighting In Your Company

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by anatsuno and viva_gloria, who are both worthy of all the praise and adoration.

Arthur’s still asleep when Eames wakes up, softened and gentled by it. Eames kisses his mouth until Arthur grumbles and swats him away.

Eames goes to the kitchen in search of sustenance and finds Mal already there. She's engrossed in a book, something thick with a half-naked tattooed woman on the cover. She doesn’t look up until Eames sits down opposite her.

“Bite to eat?”

Mal shakes her head and puts the book down. She's got a mug full of tea at her side, blue and chipped. Not one of Eames'. “Thank you,” she says.

“Oh?” Eames says. “Whatever for?”

“Your hospitality,” Mal says simply. A smile spreads across her face. “Eames, have you any idea how long it was since I had two hours to myself to read?”

A small eternity, doubtless, though Eames doesn’t think he can really claim responsibility for the brief peaceful moment Mal's enjoying now. "I should thank you," he says instead. "For the pleasure of your company." Mal snorts. "Or for Arthur's company, if you're going to persist in bizarre self-deprecation."

"I do not," Mal says, flicking a breadcrumb at Eames. "Besides, at my advanced age, I'm allowed a lapse in self-esteem."

Eames keeps quiet. Mal's always had them, periods of imperious haughtiness before a decline into insecurity, then the slow climb back. He watches Mal, reading glasses steaming up when she sips her tea, the complex serenity of her.

It puts something in place, somehow. When Eames looks away it's as though he can breathe easier, as though something changed in the quality of the light streaming yellow through the dirty kitchen window. It's a new day. Everything will be fine.

~~

Eames leaves Mal to her own devices and goes to work on his forgeries. He hasn't decided yet which one he's going for, so he tries on a few options. The mark's brother, he discards right away – something's not right there, and it's not worth the effort at this point to find out what.

The two other choices are the mark's cousin and his uncle, said cousin's father. Eames picks up something odd and tangled from that direction, and he's starting to wonder whether Mal's bawdy jokes were closer to reality than he'd thought at first.

It's Eames favorite thing about working with Mal, really: their complementary intuitions. It’s been the cause of more than one screaming match, and it also means she can grate on him when they're cooped together for any length of time, but it also means that between the two of them, they hardly miss a thing.

They fight still; but it's less vicious now, Eames thinks. They've grown into different people – if not better, then at least more comfortable in their skins, easier in their set ways.

Which makes Eames wonder, in the non-specific way he does, sensing a loose end but unwilling to grasp at it just yet. It'll come.

Eames comes awake in the living room, sitting up slowly, careful not to upset the lawn chair Arthur set there for their use.

Speaking of the devil, he seems to be awake. And for once he's not stiff and upright, Eames notes with great delight, but lying on the couch in nothing but boxer shorts and a collar.

“You’ll catch a chill,” Eames says, standing up. On impulse, he throws an afghan over Arthur. “Is this your idea, this rampant nudism?” He sits beside Arthur, resting a careful hand on his shoulder. It's not bitten off at once, which is promising.

Arthur snorts and wraps up. The movement makes him lean into Eames' touch slightly. “Mal’s orders.”

Eames considers and decides against a She Who Must Be Obeyed joke. “Have you eaten?” he says instead.

“I don’t really do breakfast.” It’s not Eames’ imagination, Arthur really is leaning into him. Eames rubs his hand across Arthur's shoulder.

“Nonsense,” Mal says. She’s still wearing her reading glasses, curled up in Eames’ overstuffed chair. “He makes wonderful pancakes.”

“No I don’t,” Arthur says. “You just say that because you love any food you don’t have to make yourself.”

Mal frowns prettily. “Talking back, Arthur?”

He sits up, licks his lips, looks her up and down. “And if I am?”

Eames leans back, better to appreciate the scenery. It warms something in him, to see Arthur’s standoffish way worn down into something almost playful.

Mal puts her book down and stalks over to them, grasping Arthur’s chin in her hand. “It’s as though you want me to hurt you, Arthur.”

Arthur remains very still and very silent, but Eames can almost hear him say, _And if I do?_

“I don’t reward disobedience,” Mal says, letting go of Arthur at once. “Eames, punish the boy. I have other things to do.”

It’s all Eames can do not to rub his hands together in utter glee. “You heard the lady, Arthur,” he says. “You can bend over or lie across my lap, your choice.” He spares a thought, in passing, to Arthur’s chest, still bruised from the day before. But no, Eames knows what he wants.

Eames has been eyeing Arthur’s arse since last night. It’s really time he showed his appreciation for it in a concrete manner.

Arthur hesitates before coming to lie in Eames’ lap. This surprises Eames almost as much as it pleases him, and he allows himself the small distraction of bending to kiss down Arthur’s spine before he sits straight up and lifts his hand.

Eames doesn’t know how much Arthur likes, but it’s hardly ever a bad idea to start small and warm up. He lays a few stinging slaps down, more to hear the sound of his own hand hitting Arthur’s arse than anything else. It is amazing under his hands, lush and firm. Eames needs to give him a thorough eating-out later, he absolutely does.

He’s just getting into it, warming up, feeling the heat creep up in Arthur’s skin and his own crotch when Arthur squirms and says, “Yellow.” Eames’ hand drops.

Arthur leans up on his elbows. “Sorry,” he says, “I don’t really like that.”

“Oh,” Eames says, deflating.

“I mean, you can go on if you want,” Arthur says, apparently oblivious to Eames’ quickly diminishing enthusiasm. “I can take it.”

“It’s no fun if you just _take_ it,” Eames grumbles. “Anywhere you do like?”

“Thighs are good,” Arthur says, and Eames takes a few swings at them, but while they’re lovely, he really had his heart set on Arthur’s arse. He pushes Arthur off gently, kissing his shoulder to take away the sting of any perceived rejection.

“Oh, you overgrown _child_ ,” Mal says. She takes off her glasses, folds them away neatly, and comes to curl in Eames’ lap, graceful as a cat.

Eames kisses her before he starts going. This is easier, familiarity guiding Eames better than intuition. He knows exactly how hard Mal wants it, exactly how to push up her skirt and scratch at the small of her back before he hits.

She doesn’t take it quietly, squirming and mewling in his lap. It goes straight to Eames’ cock, the way she gasps and cries, moving into his hand, all but humping his thigh between strikes.

“Oui, oh _oui_ ,” Mal says, eyes half closed, when Eames lands a particularly hard one, right on the junction of arse and thigh. “ _Encore._ ”

So he gives her more. He reddens her up, her pale hidden skin, and it’s so utterly fucking lovely that it takes Eames’ breath away.

“Right,” he says, and hoists her to sit up in his lap, facing away from him. He can hear the catch in her breath when her sensitive arse touches rough denim, and he nuzzles the back of her neck to take her mind off that. With her open skirt, it’s the easiest thing to spread her legs and reach between them, dip a finger into her where she’s wet.

“Have Arthur eat you out,” he whispers in her ear. “And fuck you with his fingers.” He pinches her nipples for emphasis, grinning when she pushes back against him.

“He hasn’t - _oh_ ,” she says, when Eames bites down on the side of her neck, where he knows she’s sensitive enough that she can’t think. “ _Eames._ ”

“For me, Mal?” This with a quarter-turn of her nipple. Mal thrashes against him, cursing. He doesn’t let go until she subsides.

“Fine,” she snaps. “But for that, you’re holding my hands for me later.”

That, in and of itself, is hardly a threat. Eames would wonder about what else she’s leaving unsaid, but he’s too strung on the idea of Arthur’s clever fingers in Mal’s wet pussy.

At Mal’s nod, Arthur comes to kneel in front of her. His back is so very straight; Eames is torn between admiration, annoyance and some strange fondness.

But then Arthur touches her, and Eames forgets how to pull out his feelings and examine them, forgets everything but Mal’s parted pussy, Arthur’s long fingers ghosting up her inner lips. Eames sucks on the side of her neck absently and watches, rapt, as Arthur bends to lap at the slickness around his fingers.

Mal’s thighs quiver, invisibly, but Eames can plainly feel it from where he’s sitting. She presses subtly against him, and he puts his hands back on her breasts, just stroking his thumbs over her nipples, slow and smooth.

Arthur takes his time touching her, getting everything nice and slick, before putting his hands on her thighs to spread them and bending his head to push his tongue into her, slow and obscene. He looks up at Mal, and the glint in his eyes pierces something in Eames.

“Your fingers,” Eames says, hushed for some reason. “Please?”

Arthur licks at her for a little more, desultory, before moving away and sliding two fingers in with a sure, precise movement. Eames allows himself to lower one hand then, to work on her clit, rubbing wet over it while Arthur finger-fucks her. Eames still doesn’t ease the pressure of his teeth on her neck, of his other hand on her breast; he keeps her immobile, pinned between pleasures until she cries out and strains against him.

Eames keeps her in place, lets Arthur finger her through her orgasm, only lets go of her once she’s relaxed and limp in his arms. He lays her gently on the couch and takes Arthur’s hand by the wrist.

He slides Arthur’s fingers into his mouth. In the back of his mind, Eames can feel a plan forming. He’s not sure what it is yet, but it definitely feels promising.

~~

"That's fucked up," Arthur says, flat, when Eames details his ideas about the mark's relationship with his uncle.

"So judgmental." Mal's mouth twists into a moue of disapproval. "Some would say the same about our arrangement, Arthur."

A muscle ticks in Arthur's jaw, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he turns to Eames. "Are you seriously going to have sex with this guy?"

"In the dream, perhaps," Eames says. "If it comes out that way." He's not particularly bothered by the idea. He'd prefer not to, but he's done worse and called it a job.

Arthur opens and shuts his mouth. Shakes his head. "So about the initial approach," he says, and Eames has to bite his cheek to keep from grinning. Arthur just looks so _flustered_ , in his own understated way, and Eames enjoys the reaction as much for the fact that he knew how to see it as for its own sake.

Mal catches Eames' eye and grins at him slyly. She understands this, likely better than Eames does himself.

In retrospect, Eames will think this should've rung several warning bells, possibly even a mild alarm, but he was coasting on the high of first understanding, thinking he finally knew where the chinks in Arthur's armor were.

~~

Complacency is a terrible thing.

Really, Eames should've expected this. Mal's vicious streak is tightly contained but ever-present, and she likes to prod people where it fucking hurts. Not literally, not in this case – Eames can take pain but he doesn't enjoy it, and Mal quite reasonably wants her efforts to be appreciated. She does, however, love to make people squirm.

This is how Eames ends up holding Mal's hands, her head in his lap while Arthur turns her into a glorified pin-cushion.

"I can't believe we're doing this on my couch," Eames says for form's sake.

"It's where the sharps bin is," Mal says, as though they couldn't move a goddamned bucket from one room to another. "Hush now."

She's very obviously enjoying herself, if the tiny twitches in her hands are any indication, like she wants to writhe but can't. Eames watches her hands because it's preferable to watching the rest of her, where Arthur pokes hypodermic needles into her skin with infinite patience.

Eames wouldn't call himself squeamish, and given his line of work, certainly he can't afford to be afraid of needles. It doesn't mean that he enjoys this, Mal's lovely skin pierced in so many places. It feels like purposefully destroying something beautiful.

"Eames," Mal whispers, " _look_."

Damnably hard woman to refuse, Mal. So Eames looks downwards, where Arthur's hands are working. He's got a row of needles going down her torso, starting from the side of her breast and ending halfway above her navel.

Arthur's hands still. "Down or up?" His voice is utterly calm.

Mal's lips are curved in the same beatific smile she's worn since the second needle or so. "Alternate it, I think."

Arthur rubs disinfectant over the side of her breast, making the straight row he's put in place curve inwards. He raises his eyes to grin at Eames. "I could make an integral sign," he says.

"Nothing math-related on my skin," Mal says. "Go on with it, Arthur."

Arthur bends to kiss her. Then he pinches up the skin of her breast and pushes the needle through, and Eames watches his hands so he won't have to think of sharpness and skin broken.

Mal's eyelashes flutter. "More?" Arthur asks. Eames rubs Mal's arm for comfort.

"Of course _more_ , silly boy," Mal says, "do you not know me?"

"I know you," Arthur says, and Eames could bask in the warmth in his voice like a cat in the sun.

Eames occupies himself with holding Mal's hands and watching Arthur's. They're rock-steady, Arthur's hands, capable and elegant enough that they make looking at this almost bearable. Arthur works with surgical precision. Apart from their change of direction at Mal's breast, the needles form such a straight line that Eames could use it as a ruler.

Then Arthur puts another one in place, just above Mal's hipbone, and raises his hands. "Another row?"

"No." Mal's voice has gone quiet and dreamy. "Leave it."

Arthur nods and sits down, looking at Eames quizzically. "Problem?" he asks him.

"Not at all," Eames says. "I would, however, like to get some work done while Mal's enjoying herself." He carefully disengages himself, leaving Arthur to crouch, watchful, until Mal comes out of her high.

~~

As much as he enjoys company, it's a relief to have some time to himself, to work in peace. Eames takes the case file to the porch and goes over it in the sunshine, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. One of the local stray cats comes to rub at his feet, mewling plaintively.

Eames scratches it behind the ears. "Sorry, puss," he says. "No food for you."

"Didn't figure you for a pet person," Arthur says behind his shoulder. Eames doesn't jump, but Christ, the man can move quietly.

"I'm not in the least," Eames says. "The neighbors feed them. What about you?" Dog person, Eames would bet, if anything at all.

Arthur shrugs. "They're okay when I don't have to clean up after them."

"Ah." Kids the same, Eames supposes, but asking seems unsubtle. Instead he says, "How's Mal?"

"I took out the needles," Arthur says. "She's napping."

"Kid keeping her up at nights?" Eames carefully keeps his eyes on the files and not on Arthur. Astounding, how much you can pick off a person without watching them, and how few people realize that.

The floorboards creak as Arthur shifts. "You might say _I'm_ keeping her up at night." His voice is cautious, empty of the bravado one might expect in a statement like that.

"I would never," Eames says amicably. He forces himself to shut up then, because the next thing out of his mouth would be aimed to hurt. He's a little wound up, which isn't Arthur's fault. Instead, he says, "Feel free to join her, if you like." Not quite a dismissal, but as close to it as Eames feels like offering to a guest who isn't a long-time friend.

Arthur doesn't answer. He sits on the floor, not quite at Eames' feet, but not too far away. He's still wearing his collar, hasn't taken it off once that Eames has seen since his arrival. The leash is trailing down his back.

Eames places a careful hand on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stiffens slightly but doesn't move away.

"Would you mind?" Eames takes the edge of Arthur's leash in his hand.

Arthur's back remains ramrod-straight, but something relaxes in his posture. "Go ahead." His voice is just a hint deeper now. "Do you have something for me to do?"

Nothing Eames particularly minds doing himself, but there are some things to be said for delegation. "I've made a list," Eames says, "references I might make if I'm in character. Tell me if they contradict anything important."

"Sure," Arthur says. "Uh, wait, let me get my laptop."

Eames lets go of the leash until Arthur returns, takes it back when Arthur sits back down, fractionally closer to Eames.

It's not until half an hour later that Eames realizes that Arthur didn't specify that what Eames might ask of him should be work-related. Perhaps that was to be taken for granted, perhaps Eames is reading things into the situation that aren't there.

Eames could lead himself around in circles all day with that kind of thinking, and no one would be any wiser for it. "Arthur," he says. Arthur raises questioning eyes at him. "When you said _something to do_. Did you have a specific kind of something in mind?"

Arthur shrugs. "Anything you liked."

 _Well, that's helpful_ , Eames thinks, but he's not truly irritated. Arthur's restful to be around, quiet. No wonder Mal enjoys him so. "Were you talking about the job," Eames clarifies, "or about debauchery?"

Arthur's eyebrows rise. "I can't believe you just used that word in a sentence."

"It's how words are generally used," Eames says. "And may I have an answer now?"

"Either," Arthur says. "Both." It's positively adorable, how prickly he gets at that. "I like to feel useful, okay?"

"It's more than okay, it's excellent," Eames says, with utter sincerity. "Which would you prefer?"

Arthur gets twitchy at that, visibly uncomfortable, and Eames may enjoy toying with people but he's no Mal. "Come here, then," he says, taking pity, and taking two of Arthur's fingers into his mouth. They taste faintly of antibacterial soap, more prominently of sweat and ink. They're slim but long, tickling at the back of Eames' mouth.

Arthur blinks at him. He's close enough that Eames can count his eyelashes, see his irises dilating without difficulty. He removes Arthur's fingers to say, "You like this," not trying to hide his pleasure at that.

"Yeah," Arthur says. "But that's not the point."

No, of course it's not. Arthur asked what Eames wanted him to do, after all. Eames pulls at Arthur's leash, gently enough that Arthur can ignore it if he'd rather. Arthur doesn't, coming to lean against Eames' rickety coffee table. Eames eyes it.

"Perhaps this would be best done indoors," Eames says, and Arthur follows him inside without comment. Eames leads him to the bedroom, since Mal is still out of it in the living room and Eames takes his chances when he can.

He gives Arthur a questioning look, holding the end of the leash up; at Arthur's almost imperceptible nod, he clips it to the headboard. Arthur lies down and Eames crawls beside him, wrapping one hand around his waist.

"Now where were we," he says, before taking Arthur's hand in his again.

Now that he can look at it closely, Arthur's hand is covered in tiny fine scars. They look like the kind which accumulates from long work with mechanical things. "You do a lot of soldering?" Eames asks.

"For some reason, yeah," Arthur says dryly. The PASIV devices available in the States are notorious for their tendency to break down in various baffling ways. A man who can fix them is worth his weight in gold, in some teams.

Eames is fairly certain he had plans for those hands, for Arthur and him, but they're in bed and nothing seems quite so tempting at the moment as sliding his hands under Arthur's shirt, lifting it up and hunting for more scars, for the stories written in his skin.

Mal comes into the room some time later. Eames would look up to greet her, but he's too comfortable where he is, lying with his head pillowed on Arthur's stomach.

"Apparently it's nap time," Arthur says. Eames swats his thigh for insolence, but he can't muster anything heartfelt right now.

"Lazy boy," Mal says, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. She slides her fingers through his hair. Eames closes his eyes, all but purring in contentment.

They end up all lying together, tangled in one another, and Eames would be happy falling asleep like this, except Mal and Arthur are doing some devilish thing to one another and they keep _squirming_.

"Will you be still?" Eames curves into Arthur, grabs Mal's wrist. "Some people are trying to rest."

"Some people are boring their guests," Mal says.

"Are you lacking for entertainment?" Eames doesn't bother opening his eyes, but he does turn his head. Pushes his face into the soft skin of Mal's cleavage for a bare moment before she shoves him away. "Maybe you need more work to do." He feels Arthur shaking behind him in silent laughter, and grins.

"Maybe you need the laziness fucked out of you," Mal says, and pertinent bits of Eames take charge and rear up. "You like that, do you? Arthur, push that indolent boy onto his back."

Eames is hardly a boy, but then again neither is Arthur. It makes Mal happy and it seems churlish to complain. Eames goes to his back without editorializing, happy to have hands touching him, to have Arthur and Mal crowding into him.

Mal kisses him while Arthur preps him, and Eames is quite content to lie there with his legs spread, Mal's lips on his and Arthur's fingers inside him. Then Mal gets up and Arthur pulls away, and Eames sincerely did not mean to make the noise he just made but he couldn't help it.

Mal's hand is soft on his cheek. "What is it, love?"

"You went away," Eames says, silly, helplessly.

"I won't." She comes back, lies over him. Eames reaches for her mouth, and she says something Eames can't quite catch before she bends back to kiss him.

At Arthur's prodding, Eames moves to lie on his side, and Arthur slides in behind him. Mal keeps Eames occupied with her kisses as Arthur slides – is that three fingers, now? – inside him. Eames moans at the stretch; it feels impossibly good. His own fingers seek Mal's pussy, not to offer her any real stimulation but for the familiar comfort of her.

She captures his hand and puts it on her breast, and he pets her there instead, agreeable. She pulls him to lie over her, which dislodges Arthur's fingers. Eames whimpers then, at the loss of contact and the pain of the sudden pulling out, but Arthur doesn't leave him empty for long.

It's good, it's all so fucking good that Eames doesn't want to speak, doesn't want to think, only to feel and ask for more. He spreads his legs wider in the hope that Arthur will get the hint. Mal's stomach is soft against his erection, and really, Eames should take more of his own weight before he smothers her, but so far she’s not complaining. Eames kisses her collarbones; they're right there and they're beautiful.

For a while Eames is floating in contentment, before the urgency builds up in him and he needs more. "Mal," he whispers in her ear, too blown away to pitch his voice for Arthur to hear, "ask your boy to fuck me."

Bless her heart, she does. But Arthur says, "I wanted to do something else. That okay?"

It's fine; anything's okay as long as they both stay right where they are and don't leave Eames. He mumbles something along these lines, and Arthur must hear him because Eames feels another finger pushing into him.

He gasps, angles his arse up to offer Arthur a better angle to work with. He imagines Arthur's smile, the same satisfied expression he wore when he finished off checking that list for Eames. "Yes," Eames says, quiet but no less sincere for it.

The stretch and burn is fantastic, more than Eames usually takes and all the better for that. He's got a dim idea of what Arthur's going for, a specific wish of his from earlier taking form. Could Arthur read Eames this well? Or possibly Eames has been than subtle, with all the attention he paid to Arthur's hands. Eames thinks he can hardly be faulted for that.

Then Arthur's fingers leave him, careful and deliberate, and Eames chokes down a sob.

"Come on," Arthur says. "Lie on your back. I want to see your face."

Eames turns over readily. Mal comes to pillow her head on his chest, apparently content to watch. Eames can sympathize, because Arthur's face is fascinating right now, the desire in him abstracted, absorbed into something like professional interest. There's a bit of pride there, too, and something else Eames can't quite name.

Arthur puts his fingers back inside Eames, four again. Eames cries out and moves, and something in Arthur moves right along with him.

 _This is joy_ , Eames thinks, stunned, taking in Arthur's slight smile, the crinkling around his eyes. _This is what joy is._

Then Arthur puts his little finger into Eames, too, and Eames can't think at all anymore.

He's probably saying something, he has no idea what. Mal and Arthur are speaking to each other, and Eames would like to listen except he's not quite sure how words work anymore.

After a little while Mal pushes him to lean up. Eames does, to the best of his ability – everything in him is shaking, and his muscles don't seem to work quite right. But lean up Eames does, with Mal's hand at his shoulder for support, and it's so fucking worth it that it defies description.

Because there's Arthur's wrist, stretching Eames open, the vein in Arthur's forearm pulsing as he moves gently inside him, and Eames can _feel_ it, and the whole thing's so fucking beautiful that Eames could burst.

He comes, instead, without warning, and the spurts of it hit Arthur in the chest. Eames feels himself contracting around Arthur, hard, but Arthur is still there, still filling him up, and Eames has never felt so fucking incredible in his life.

Arthur pulls his hand out in slow tugs, keeping his other hand on Eames the entire time. There's another hushed exchange between Mal and him that Eames is still too woozy to follow. Mal slips away from his grasp, and Eames would reach for her, except that would be so much work when he has Arthur right _there_.

Besides, she comes back, with a damp cloth for Arthur's hand and a small black plug that she puts in Eames so he'll have something to clench on and not feel so empty without Arthur.

"Rest now," she whispers in Eames' ear. "I have plans for later."

Mal leaves. The bedroom door shuts quietly behind her. Arthur lets Eames wrap himself around him. Arthur's erection is poking into Eames' thigh. "You could fuck me," Eames suggests; he's too blissed out to offer anything more active than lying down and taking it.

"No," Arthur says, and kisses him. "Not yet."

"I could," Eames says, and stops because he ran out of energy in mid-sentence.

"You could rest," Arthur says, and kisses his temple. "You did a good job. I'm fine."

Eames drifts off, clinging to Arthur. It occurs to him that he should feel a bit ridiculous, praised for doing nothing but lying in place with his legs spread, but Arthur's scratching his back lightly, so Eames nuzzles his shoulders and falls asleep, Arthur securely in his hold.


End file.
